I like the way you look in my house (the way you look in my sheets)
by Aza White
Summary: Thomas's first night with her brings back some old memories. But then, he also gets to make a few new ones. (Title inspired by Semi Precious Weapons song "Aviation High".)


_Thomas Hunt led her into his bedroom, nerves jumbled and common sense nearly scrambled. She paused on the threshold._

 _"_ _This is really happening." She looked at him with something akin to awe in her eyes. "It's really happening."_

 _He smiled, a nearly-awkward but very genuine smile. "It is." Gently grabbing hold of her hand, he guided her to the edge of his bed. He slowly pulled out her hairpins, one by one, laying them carefully on his nightstand. Then he gently, smoothly put one hand on her hip, the other on the zipper of her sequined, skintight dress. "Are you sure…?"_

 _She leaned in and kissed him, silencing the question on his lips. She pulled back for only a second to let an airy "Yeah" escape her before reclaiming his mouth. Thomas could take a hint, and slowly, almost teasingly, unzipped her dress all the way, letting his fingers glide on her bare skin._

Thomas blinked awake, the pale light of dawn shimmering into his room and across the bed. His eyes strayed from the alarm clock proclaiming it to be 5:32 am to the woman in bed next to him. He stared unabashedly at the soft flutter of her eyelashes, the tiny curl of her lips, the arch of her neck, the curves not-quite hidden underneath the sheet. She was beautiful, exquisite, captivating.

Memories of the previous evening flooded through Thomas. Her deep maroon lingerie smoothed over her skin, her husky moans, the breathless voice that pleaded for more, all of it ran through his head. But even as he replayed the glorious night, other memories seeped into his consciousness, memories of other nights. Of other women.

He couldn't count the number of times he had woken up with a woman next to him. Marianne, he knew, had only shared his bed once—an awkward, snarky, criticism-filled night that had signaled the impending end of their relationship. Within the next month, she had moved to New York.

Priya had been another story. They had spent eight wonderful months together, to the point where she might as well have moved in. She had her own drawer in his dresser, a section of his closet, and a coffee mug in the kitchen. Thomas had come home one day to find her things packed and a note on the table.

Of course, there were others. He had short, passionate affairs with women whose names he could not remember. And then there were the ones he wanted but could not have—Yvonne, for one. And _her_ , for the longest time. How many nights had he spent dreaming of her hand in his, of her warmth next to him? Too many.

And now, here she was, sleeping in his house, in his bed, between his sheets. It was magnificent, seeing her closed eyes flutter with dreams in the context of his surroundings, like she had finally come and fallen into the missing piece of his life. Her hair, tousled from the night's activities, was spread across his pillow like a halo.

Thomas took a gentle finger and traced the curve of her face, careful not to disturb her sleep. She was here, really here, and it was perfect. Her lips curled up even more, and he wondered what she dreamt of that made her so happy. Could he dare hope it was him? Did he dare?

She was a mystery, an enigma, a paradox of respect and passion, of love and lust. She was an unknown, a what-if. And he was hers as much as she was his. He had never been so completely happy, so perfectly content to be someone's. Thomas had never met a person quite like her.

He leaned over and pressed a feather-light kiss to her forehead. "I love you." His words came out as a breath, a hesitant but not unsure sigh, a soothing whisper. "So much."

"I love you too, Thomas." The words startled him and he jerked back, only to see her eyes wide open, sparkling with mischief. He couldn't resist a fond, exasperated smile.

"Oh, you little…"

"I don't like that tone." She smiled despite herself, and glanced at the clock. "Damn, I don't have to be at the dorms for another hour and a half."

"I could make breakfast. Or," he added, "We _could_ find another way to pass the time."

"Oh?" She lifted a brow. "What kind of way are you thinking about?"

He smirked. "Allow me the pleasure of demonstrating."

She gave an adorable little quiver. He reached over, very slowly, until…

*Thwap!* He chuckled at the astonished look on her face. "Bet you didn't see that one coming, did you?"

She grinned. "And I bet you'll lose this unwisely started pillow fight!" She grabbed another fluffy pillow and thrust it against his chest. He returned the blow, and soon the two of them were shrieking and almost certainly annoying the neighbors. At one point, he rolled on top of her, and their playful manner disappeared entirely.

She let out a breathy chuckle, and if he didn't know any better, Thomas would have thought she was nervous. Slowly, hesitantly, she lifted her head to press her lips to his, hands snaking around his back. He soon laid down next to her, arms around her back, hands running through her hair.

He glanced at the clock again and cursed. "I have to get ready for class."

She pouted. "Not even a few more minutes?"

Thomas was oh-so-tempted to give in, to call in sick, to do anything that would enable him to stay with her all day long. Unfortunately, that would mean both of them would be absent, and rumors—however true—would circulate about them. And as little as he cared for his own sake, he would not damage her reputation any more than he already had.

She sighed before he had to say anything. "I know, I know." She scooted out of bed, picking up her discarded clothes from the night before and getting hastily dressed. He put on a robe and walked her to the door, where she turned around to face him.

"I'll see you in class, _Professor_." And with a wink, she walked off the porch and hailed a cab. Thomas stood stunned as she sent him a flirty air kiss from inside the cab. He barely noticed the cool air as he shut the door. _Well, if that was how she wants to play it…_


End file.
